AN UN-REAL NUISANCE

Walking with my friend Larry has gone from adventurous hikes to short treks, especially now that the weather has taken a nasty turn.

"How's it going?" he asks.

"Just fine," I reply, as I watch him check his pain pump and straighten his eye patch. Larry wears a heavy coat over a light jacket, the cold a nemesis for him now.

"Mike, if I start acting strangely on our walk it's because I've got a pest that's clinging to me these days. I know you can't see it but....there, there it is again," he exclaims as he swats his gloved hand in a downward fashion.

I'm completely baffled.

"I know it's not there," he continues. "It's an illusion. Sometimes it looks like a cat, sometimes a small bird. And it changes colors all the time; now it's black."

I'm about to make a crack about the possibility he might soon be walking with a mermaid if he's lucky but quickly realize this is not a time for levity.

"Is it always there?" I ask.

"Not always but when the critter appears, it can be very annoying."

I'm reminded of my mother's visual hallucinations during her decline and wonder why the brain insists on playing tricks with the vulnerable.

We walk and talk. Topics of conversation are limited to real things like trying to catch a mouse in one's kitchen, the battery booster attached to his idle car, the watermain repair at the end of the street. He mentions something about the nurse who visits his home.

"Does she come twice a week now?" I wonder out loud.

"Actually, she comes every morning to take my temperature, my blood pressure, check my meds. Things can change very quickly at this stage of the game."

Suddenly, Larry stops. He's rummaging in his pocket for something....a tissue.

"I need a crying break," he says as he wipes his cheek.

I realize my question has landed in a sensitive place and I give my friend time to collect himself before resuming our walk. Mercifully, his morphing illusion has retreated for now.

"Aren't you cold Mike in that light coat and no gloves?" 

I'm touched by Larry's concern. 

"I'm okay. The cold doesn't usually get to me. I've got my mother to thank for that."

"How's that's?" he asks.

"When I was a baby, she'd leave me outside in the cold every morning to get some fresh air. I think she was just following the advice of Doctor Spock, the baby expert back then."

"Spock!" Larry repeated. "I didn't know your mom was a Trekkie."

We share a good laugh and then make a turn for home.

Lately, I'm finding it quite difficult to watch my friend diminish so. But, after every visit, I reflect on the fact that when I'm at Larry's side, I know that's exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Continue to be brave, my friend. 

Be brave.